We all have one in our family: that person who forgets birthdays and anniversaries; sometimes, a card shows up a week late full of apologies, though sometimes a card doesn’t show up at all.

In my family, I am that person.

A couple times now, I’ve asked Jason mid-September why we were going out to dinner that night. Turns out it was our anniversary. I’ve missed my sister and brother-in-law’s anniversary a few times, and I was their maid of honor. I almost forgot my parents’ anniversary once, and wound up driving to their house in the middle of the night to tuck a card in the mailbox so they’d have it the next day.

My worst offense by far, though, is my aunts’ birthdays.

I have three aunts who were all pretty influential on making me the woman I am today. My Aunt Joan is fearless, always trying new hobbies, careers, and places to live, never afraid to fail. My Aunt Bea is brilliant and witty, and taught me to say something when things aren’t right, and to never be afraid of being alone. And my Aunt Joanne has been a rock throughout my life: she’s funny, supportive, one of my biggest cheerleaders, and also taught me it’s okay to sometimes not leave the house if you don’t want to, or to have hot dogs on Christmas if you feel like a darn hot dog.

If you ever stopped by the Books & Boos Bookstore back in the day, chances are, you’ve met Auntie Joanne. She was our go-to person when events or emergencies came up, always willing to step in, man the store, and keep the coffee brewing. She’s always done this: as a kid, I remember Auntie picking me up from school and bringing me home because Mom was working (Auntie’s work schedule was the same as our school schedule, so it worked out perfectly. For me, anyway). She’d babysit when needed, and when I was in college, she sent a card every week with a crisp five-dollar bill in it. She’s pretty amazing. You’d think I’d have enough decency to remember her birthday, wouldn’t you?

My sister gives us all a family calendar each Christmas. It’s full of family pictures, and perhaps in an effort to help her forgetful younger sibling remember to send out a darn card on time for once, she has everyone’s birthday printed on it. Just yesterday, I was writing Plastic City Comic Con on the calendar (see you there Saturday!) and saw I’d missed Auntie Joanne’s birthday. Again.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s what this blog is this week: an apology to my aunt. Sorry, Auntie Joanne. You are marvelous and wonderful and I love you and I’m sorry I missed your birthday. 
 
In an effort to sweeten this apology, I'm including a picture of Wednesday looking adorable. If you could share it with Auntie Bea and Auntie Joan, I’d appreciate it. Because if it’s any comfort, you are not alone: I missed their birthdays, too.

A couple of weeks ago, I took an impromptu trip out to Block Island to see my parents (and, arguably, to get away—the lack of Wi-Fi and terrible cell phone signals out there pretty much force one to stop working and, say, do a crossword). Of course, to get to the island, you have two choices: boat or plane.

I went with boat this trip, mostly because it’s cheaper. (When I was younger, I always flew, white-knuckling it for twelve minutes straight while regretting every Buddy Holly joke I’d ever cracked. But back then, the quickness of the trip won out over frugality.)

I got to the ferry dock early, walked right on the boat, and made myself comfortable. I was feeling smug: I’d gotten a good seat, had bottled iced coffee on hand to satisfy my caffeine addiction, and was ready to fire up the Kindle and read a good book.

Then the people came.

The bridal party was first. Twelve women, all young and cute, wearing T-shirts reading “Bride’s Drinking Team.” Classy. Also, from the way they smelled and slurred, I suspected the imbibing had already started well before they’d found their way to the 8:00 ferry. My best guess is they’d begun the night before, and hadn’t yet made it to bed.

Great.

I tried not to let their drunken screeching bother me, telling myself things like you’ve got to admire their stamina and oh, good. They’re moving toward the front (I was near the back). Then a family of three—a dad, a boy about five, and a girl around eight—settled in across the aisle from me.

Cute, I thought. From the boy’s prattling, it was his first boat trip ever, and he was very excited. “I’m Batman, and Daddy, you can be Robin, and Annamarie is Wonder Woman.”

I’m not usually a fan of children, but this guy was winning my heart with his lisp and innoc--

“And that lady can be the Hulk.”

Wait, what?

I glanced around, then down at my top, one I’d thought was a complimentary shade of emerald. Note to self: this green shirt is not as flattering as I think it is. I gave the little brat a scowl, which apparently delighted him, because he squealed in laughter and shouted, “Hulk mad!”

Okay, I’m an adult. I can ignore twelve drunk bridesmaids and a five-year-old calling me fat. I stared at my Kindle, rereading the same sentence three or seventeen times before finally relaxing and getting into the story.
Twelve seconds before the ferry took off, the seat next to me was suddenly filled by a musician. How do I know she was a musician? Because her gigantic guitar case was crammed between seat and aisle, now effectively blocking my path to the bathroom.

I was sipping on my third iced coffee at that point.

I offered the musician a weak smile. It wasn’t an emergency—yet. I returned to my book, the ferry took off, and we were on our way. How bad could it be?

The ride was rocky. And slow. Normally, this trip takes just over an hour, but one hour in, I still couldn’t see the island’s coastline. My bladder lurched with every heave of the ferry over the waves. I wasn’t going to make it. “Excuse me?” I asked the musician. “Can I get by?” The words potty emergency were on the tip of my tongue, but not needed—she was happy to move the guitar. As a bonus, she jerked it a little too hard, accidentally slamming the knee of the “she can be the Hulk” kid. That’s right: the Hulk actually smiled at his tears.

I hustled to the row of airplane-like bathrooms, and glanced up to find all six of them bore red signs reading “Occupied.” I crossed my legs. Did a little wiggly dance. Waited.

And waited.

The boat was docking now, and I still hadn’t made it into a stall. But there was no way I was going to make it down the plank without wetting my pants (the count was now up to four coffees, people).

Now, I’m not one to do this normally, but action was called for: I knocked on the first door. “Excuse me? We have a potty emergency out here!” I paused. And from all six stalls echoed back the unmistakable sound of bridesmaids projectile vomiting.

Next time, I’m taking the plane.

In past years, mid-July is about the time when I’d post some whimsical, funny story about my garden, and you could all shake your heads and say, “Silly woman. I hope she brings me some green beans soon.” However, this summer, things have changed. I’m not the same woman I was a year ago.

I used to love tending the garden. It was not only something I felt I had to do (after all, I am a farmer’s daughter, and vegetable gardens are undisputedly what we’re best known for, right?), but something I enjoyed. My mother planted veggies every year when we were growing up. She’d toil, pulling weeds and mulching potatoes, while Kim and I killed tomato hornworms and ate snap peas off the vine. So I have happy memories. That’s really mostly why I plant one, without fail, every spring.

This year, come May, Jason rototilled the area where I usually plant. I’ve been saying (okay, complaining) for a few years now that the plot he tills is too large—I have neither the time nor the energy to maintain a garden that size. Also, keep in mind that I am the only one who weeds. So I found myself yet again disgruntled at the size of the overturned dirt area.

But in years past, I’d plant the whole thing anyway and be miserable. This year, I had an epiphany: I can’t handle a garden that size. So I’m not going to fill it in the first place.

There was no discussion of what would go in, and no doubt Jason assumed I’d plant the crap he likes: corn, pumpkins, gourds, that kind of thing. I didn’t. I put in green beans, potatoes, cucumbers, and a few onions, filling maybe half the mapped-out, freshly turned earth, and called it a day. (Actually, two days: I’m not as spry as I used to be.) The garden was in. Hooray!

Now, normally I’m pretty on top of things. I’d weed every couple of weeks, monitor for animal and insect damage, and destroy complete ecosystems accordingly. But this year . . . listen, I’ve been sick. And I have a lot of other things going on—writing, editing, laundry . . .

I did take a stroll through (actually, with the weeds blocking my path, it was more like near) the garden over the 4th of July holiday weekend. There might be green beans in there. It looks like the potatoes are doing fine. The cucumber plants, however, are in desperate need of help. Some had bug damage to their leaves; another had been reduced to stems, clearly the remains of some rodent’s snack. I could break out the gloves, floppy hat, tick spray and hoe, or I could . . . not.

I just didn’t care anymore.

Okay, so, I’m not completely out of the gardening game. I do like produce freshly picked from the back yard. I looked at those struggling cucumber vines, then at the weeds, then made the only decision I felt up to: I went into the house, filled a pot with Miracle-Gro potting soil, poked the two cucumber seeds I had left in, and stuck the pot on my side deck.

One pot. No weeds. A deck fence that might serve as a fence-fence.

Gardening just got a whole lot easier.